Sole Mate
by BabalooBlue
Summary: No backtalk from Wilson to House's threat in 'All In' can only mean one thing - House has got dirt on Wilson. Set at the very end of 'Need To Know', Season 2. Contains dialogue from 'Need To Know'. (Friendship and Humor with a dash of Angst. Some recreational drug use included.) *Collaboration with Brighid45* *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

**Unfortunately, this website doesn't allow for collaborations (AO3 does, though. _*hint hint*_). If it did, this story would show under both my and _Brighid45_'s account. Double posting might confuse people, so we decided against it. But she deserves as much of the credit for cooking this up as I do - and half the blame, too. **

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><p>House closed his eyes, and rested his head against the cold brickwork of the hospital walls. Thankfully, the roof terrace was quiet at this time of day. Or night, as it may be. He didn't care what time it was. His patient was out of surgery and the team was taking care of things. He had nothing to do but <em>not<em> be downstairs to witness 'the departure'. Instead he sat up here smoking a joint he had pilfered from Wilson.

The door to the stairwell opened and, of course, who else could it be but Wilson. He was like a bloodhound on the trail of something. House idly wondered if there was a country where Wilson would not be able to find him. If so, right now he would seriously consider moving there.

"House? There you are. What are you doing here? I just saw Stacy. She is packing. Did you know this?"

House leaned back against the wall, blowing smoke up into the night sky. _Of course I know it,_ he thought, and felt both fury and grief rise up inside him, like fire fed with gasoline. "M-hm, I know. What are you doing here, Wilson? Go away. You're harshing my mellow."

"What am I doing here?" Wilson sounded indignant, his voice tight with disbelief. "The woman my best friend is apparently sleeping with is leaving. I'm also missing a joint. I put two and two together. And came up with four, it was that easy." He paused. When he spoke again his tone was calmer, less strident. "House, you can't just steal a joint from my office. How did you get this out? I already took one from your pocket before you left. How many did you take?"

It had taken Wilson this long to figure it out? House shook his head and let his contempt show. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You can't steal drugs from my office – says the doctor who is rolling joints in his free time. You're not exactly in a position to point the finger here."

Wilson just stood there, looking at him with silent reproach. Okay, maybe he did have a point. They were talking about an illegal substance after all. House sighed and ran his hand over his face. He was surprised to find his fingers trembled a little.

"Misdirection, dear Watson, misdirection. It's the oldest trick in the book. You're too easy. I figured I had distracted you enough so you wouldn't remember exactly how many joints were on your desk. I pocketed two, one so obvious that you had to spot it. I knew you'd be delighted with yourself for having found it. Simple misdirection." House shrugged.

"I'm glad you're so pleased with yourself, Sherlock, but you might also deduce they're for someone who really needs them. My patient is in pain." Wilson was more than annoyed.

House leaned forward and glared at him. Sometimes it is easier to tell the truth when people expect you to lie. Slowly, emphasizing every word, he said, "_I _need them. _I'm_ in pain. _I'm_ your patient."

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You're kidding, right? You're not my patient, House. Are you seriously comparing your pain levels with someone who has end-stage liver cancer?"

House rested his back against the wall and made a point of rubbing his thigh. "Last time I checked you were still prescribing for me." He couldn't help it; he had to poke Wilson until he exploded.

"Okay, yes, I am. But you're not maxed out on all pain meds like my patient."

"And yet you keep arguing I'm taking too much as it is. You won't even consider that I could be under- rather than over-medicating…" There it was. The needle that would burst the Wilson balloon.

_Three… Two… One…_

"House! This-this isn't the issue! I will _not_ discuss this with you now. You took a joint from my office. I… I obviously can't take it back now, seeing as you've all but destroyed the evidence."

House just grinned, mainly because it was expected of him. Wilson was too predictable. "You're getting boring. If you've come here to berate me for my drug use, then you can leave now. You've said your piece."

But it was plain this scolding wasn't the real reason why Wilson had come up to the roof. There was something else on his mind. Clearly House's attempt at distraction hadn't worked. He was about to return to why he had originally come up here.

"What about Stacy? What did you tell her?" The urgency and, even worse, subtle condemnation in Wilson's tone made House clench his teeth.

"That's interesting. You assume right away it's something I've said or done. Now, why would that be? You don't think she decided that her marriage is worth more than a replay of something . . ." He paused, went on. ". . . something she realized years ago wasn't worth hanging around for?"

Wilson walked over to where House sat. He stopped a few feet away. "Why is she leaving, House?"

"Because I told her it's over. Because I sent her away. Now, if I tell _you_ that it's over, will you go away, too?" House snapped. He finished the roach and flung it over the balustrade. As he stared Wilson right in the eye, he pulled out his Vicodin bottle and took two pills. For once, Wilson didn't rise to the bait. Instead he just stood there and waited House out. It was a deliberate provocation. House felt the fire inside him burn a little hotter as his rage grew.

"Oh for the love of all that's holy to you!" He almost shouted. "If I tell you, will go away already? I told her she's better off without me."

Wilson opened his mouth and then paused. "Huh. That's probably true." He looked surprised. Then comprehension swept over his face. "You're an idiot. You don't think she'd be better off without you."

Sometimes it wasn't quite as easy to fool Wilson as one would think. House glared at him. "Right. I sent her off on a whim."

"House, you have no idea why you sent her off."

Now Wilson had become seriously annoying. "Don't do this." The warning would do no good, but he had to say it. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back.

But his so-called friend couldn't let it go_. _"This was no great sacrifice! You sent her away because you've got to be miserable."

House felt like he needed another joint. Pity he had only taken the one from Wilson's office. "Kick a guy while he's down, Wilson! That kind of psycho-crap help get your patients through the long nights? Or is it just for you? Tough love make you feel good? Helping people feel their pain?"

Wilson was about to leave; maybe he had realized he had gone too far. But no, there was more. House saw the other man turn, and drew in a breath.

"You don't like yourself. But you do admire yourself. It's all you've got, so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special. Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else, House. It just makes you miserable."

With a stage-worthy exit, Wilson left the roof terrace, and House sat alone on the balustrade. He stayed there for a while, not sure whether he really wanted to get up. There was also the matter of how he would get home. He had hoped to hitch a ride with Wilson but that was out of the question now. Even if Wilson came back, no way would he subject himself to more pontificating about how he had done wrong by Stacy.

He hopped off the balustrade, delighted to find that his leg hurt a lot less than before. _Huh, how about that._ All the meds he had tried over the years, and it turned out that good old pot was as effective as any of the expensive stuff. He would have to find out who Wilson's source was.

It took a while to get to the ground floor. He waited with ill-concealed impatience for an empty elevator, finally got into one and managed to push the correct button. The descent went on forever, but eventually he reached his destination. Having made it to the lobby, he realized he was probably too far gone to drive. A taxi it was then.


	2. Chapter 2

**From **both Brighid45 and myself a big** thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and followed this story so far. **

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><p>The ride home was something of a blur, mainly because House was lost in thought. He saw the familiar scenery of Princeton as it passed by, but he paid it little attention. The pot helped in that regard of course, but he did have a lot to think about.<p>

He was barely home, just about to change into his pajamas when a knock sounded at the door. For one moment he stopped, frozen by shock. Stacy . . . _Don't be an idiot!_ he yelled inside his head. _She's not coming back!_

The knock sounded again, and this time he knew who it was. House growled under his breath. His plans for the night definitely did not include Wilson. He planned to open a bottle of bourbon, play some tunes and then probably fall asleep on the couch if he couldn't make it as far as the bed.

When House came into the room, Wilson had already used his key and made himself at home, a six-pack in his left hand and a pizza box in his right. His friend was currently busy as he attempted to create space among the mess for the pizza and beer. House didn't acknowledge Wilson right away. Instead, with a grateful sigh he sank down into the familiar hollow his butt had created in his couch over the years. "What are you doing here, Wilson? I didn't invite you. If you've come for more pontificating, you can turn around and leave right now. I'm not in the mood." That was the understatement of the year.

Wilson straightened up, an apologetic look on his face. "I come in peace, House. Look!" And he pulled something out of his pocket. He held up the plastic bag House had seen in his office the other day. "This is a white flag. You can't shoot me now."

Hm, Wilson apologizing was odd. Wilson bringing drugs was even odder – if you didn't consider the man's beer delivery business. House raised an eyebrow. Something was up. But if pizza, beer and drugs were involved, who was he to say no? If Wilson felt he had to make amends for being an ass earlier, well, House could pretend to be gracious for one evening.

"I accept your apology. The bottle opener is in its usual spot." He tore into the pepperoni pizza – extra jalapenos, Wilson knew how to keep a cranky House happy – and watched Wilson slouch off into the kitchen. While Wilson rummaged in the kitchen drawers, House polished off another slice of pizza. "Why are you even here? It's Friday night, I thought you'd be going out for dinner with Julie", he said around a glorious mouthful of pepperoni and cheese.

Wilson came back into the living room, two open bottles of beer in hand. "One of Julie's high school friends is in town for the weekend, they're going out tonight."

_Aha._ House thought he could detect a hint of annoyance in Wilson's face. "That friend male or female?"

Wilson grimaced. "House, no-"

"I'm just saying. Only yesterday you told me you were going out to that new Thai restaurant. Changing plans on your spouse short-notice is not a good sign."

Wilson sat down on the couch and drank a big mouthful of beer, as if to fortify himself. "Not everyone is as suspicious as you, House. Besides, stop meddling in my marriage."

"Really? That's your comeback? I should stop meddling in your relationship? You should take your own advice more often, you're enough of a busybody that Pink Floyd even dedicated a whole album to you."

"Look, if this is about earlier…"

House interrupted him. A part of him, the angry and miserable part, wanted to get some of his own back. Petty and pointless, true enough, but he didn't care. "You know, Wilson, you've been giving off very mixed messages here. First, you don't want me pursuing Stacy. Then, when I do decide it's best to let the past be the past, you blame me for wanting to wallow in my own misery. You can't have it both ways. Or maybe you can, you're Saint Jimmy after all." House reached down to pick up another slice and tried to get a good look at Wilson without seeming to. He hadn't had time earlier to turn on more than two lights, so it was kind of dark in the apartment, too dark to figure out whether Wilson was genuinely contrite or just playing him. Both seemed valid options, the first slightly less so than the latter.

"House, you know I'm just worried about you. The last time you and Stacy split up I was left to pick up the pieces. I don't want you getting hurt again."

House lifted up the slice and surveyed it to make sure it had enough jalapenos on it. "And here you are again, picking up the pieces. Thanks very much, Wilson. My own personal cleaner, just what I always wanted." As he spoke he realized he was slowly getting fed up with do-gooding Wilson. God, the man had annoyed the hell out of him today. A surge of anger moved through him. He dumped the slice back in the box, pushed up off the couch and went to the kitchen. He tried not to limp too badly. Pain levels were back to normal; the analgesic effect of that joint earlier hadn't lasted that long. Surely in this light Wilson wouldn't see he used the back of the couch as support.

He didn't need any illumination to find the refrigerator and get another beer. As he stood there in the darkness and rolled the chilled bottle across his forehead, it occurred to House that maybe Wilson was as desperate as he was for a little distraction. He leaned back against the counter.

He needed to _think_.

"Wilson, check if there's anything good on TV."

It took some time but eventually he heard the tv flare into life, and then Wilson channel-hopping as he searched the premium tiers.

Was it possible that Wilson's indecisiveness about House and Stacy was simply a reflection of his own doubts regarding his marriage to Julie? _Wilson, as desperate and human as the rest of us. How about that? _House looked out into the dimly-lit living room where Wilson slowly munched away on a slice of pizza. But his heart wasn't in it. There was a drop of tomato sauce on his shirt, and he hadn't even noticed. Normal Wilson would be frantic to get the stain out of his shirt by now.

But Normal Wilson wasn't here, it seemed. This was doubtful, worried and "off" Wilson.

House needed his friend back.

After weeks of agonizing over Stacy, fighting with her, flirting with her, pushing her, trying to push Mark, ending up in bed with her, he had finally done the right thing. Or so he thought. If Wilson was right, then he had just done what he always did – blown things up and put a chasm between them, as he did with everyone else.

He had sent Stacy back to Mark and he _knew_ it was the right thing to do. But for a little while he had felt alive again, _right_ again, dammit. He had thought they could make another go at things . . . until he realized that just as Stacy was now leaving Mark for him, years ago she had left after the surgery – so what would stop her from leaving him again in a few months when things got a bit rough? And what would stop him from hurting her again? Would she not resent him later for having been the reason she left Mark? Guilt would eventually destroy what they had. While some people might consider his ethics non-existent, he did have some lines he wouldn't cross. In fact, it had cost him considerable effort to put aside his qualms about even getting involved with Stacy again. If Stacy left Mark now, then Mark would be even worse off than House had been all those years ago – at least he had pushed her away then, he had made her leave or had at least provoked it. As far as he knew, Mark had done nothing of the sort. The man didn't deserve that. And Stacy didn't deserve the guilt she would eventually feel. And he himself didn't deserve the pain he would have to go through all over again sooner or later.

All in all – beginning another relationship with Stacy didn't bode well for any of the people involved. And he had the chance to stop all this. So he did. A simple equation solved. Then why did he feel like crap?


	3. Chapter 3

**From **both Brighid45 and myself a big** thank you for all your kind reviews so far.**

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><p>House was jolted out of his musings by a sudden blaze of light. "What on earth are you doing here in the dark?" Without warning Wilson had flipped the light on in the kitchen.<p>

House shielded his eyes and fought against a flare of anger. "Ahh, you _moron_! Are you trying to blind me?" He pushed off the counter. "I'm coming, I'm coming…"

He let Wilson go back ahead of him, careful not to let him see how much he was hurting. He needed his friend back, so that was what he concentrated on, his pain could wait. Or . . . maybe he could cover both bases at the same time.

Settling back into the couch, he looked over at Wilson, who still seemed distracted. "So, where did you hide the magic stuff then? Changed your mind about sharing?" He used a teasing tone and offered a smirk. Wilson would expect both.

Two minutes later Wilson rolled a joint for them, the TV show all but forgotten. They had muted the volume because the dialog was almost unbearable. House watched Wilson's expert hands, as they picked just the right amount of weed from the bag, spread it out on the cigarette paper and then carefully rolled it all. "This is not the first time you've done this…" he said to the silence in the room.

"What, do you think I didn't go to college? Or med school?"

"No, _you_ didn't do pot in med school. There's no way you would've risked your grades suffering because of late night smoking sessions, mister perfect grade average, you."

House took the joint from Wilson and lit it. As he leaned back into the couch, he eyed his friend. "So, what is it then? Where did you learn to roll so expertly? Who showed you?"

Wilson shrugged and looked away. "Maybe it was one of my ex-wives?"

Now Wilson openly teased him. House scoffed. "Your ex-wives? Doubt it. They were all much too stuck up to have fun like this. Imagine Bonnie with a joint in her hand!"

Wilson took the joint from House and laughed. "Yeah, you're right. Sam would've probably called the cops on me if she'd caught me with pot. And I wouldn't be so sure about Julie either…"

"_Seriously_? Where are you hiding this stuff then? Don't tell me you keep it in your office!" Wilson shrugged and said nothing. House elbowed him. "C'mon . . ."

"Okay, okay. Yes, I keep it in the office. And now I know who to go to if it goes missing." A serious Wilson stare accompanied that last bit. House rolled his eyes at the display of moral righteousness.

"You've had a secret stash of excellent weed in your office all those years and I never knew about it? Wilson… you're not dealing, are you? Or…" he said as comprehension struck, "hang on. Is Cuddy in on it maybe? Would explain all those expensive shoes she's been buying lately. Actually…" and he dropped his look to gaze intently at Wilson's feet on the edge of the coffee table.

The look on Wilson's face turned from disbelief to worry in a matter of seconds. Oh, this was _good_. "You wouldn't _dare_ tell Cuddy about this!"

House assumed what he hoped was an innocent expression. "Tell Cuddy what? That you're dealing out of your office? I don't have a problem with that, so why should she?"

Wilson got up to pace - back and forth, back and forth . . . He stopped in front of House and raised a warning hand. Apparently he'd forgotten he still held the joint. "I am NOT dealing. And you can't tell Cuddy about this, House. I'm-I'm not kidding! She'll-my god, she'll-Lisa will fire me!"

House smirked. _Keep it minimal, don't overdo it._ And just like that, he could see doubt creep into Wilson's eyes. To keep his face straight and not laugh out loud took House some serious self-control. Wilson's panicked gaze turned to exasperation.

"Oh… you _bastard_, you! You're just trying to get me to admit my source. I knew it! You're an ass!"

House couldn't help but laugh, though it felt hollow, forced. "Did you really think I'd rat you out to Cuddy? Sometimes I think you don't know me at all, Wilson. Now gimme that joint or it'll burn itself out, you moron."

Whatever House did, Wilson wouldn't give up his source. After the sneaky approach, he considered honesty-at least for a moment or two. But that would mean a serious talk with Wilson about his pain – and he was not prepared to do that. He could barely stand to think about the day's events as it was, let alone talk about them any more than he already had. Things weren't that bad yet. Besides, the night was young; he might still get Wilson to spill his guts.

They finished the joint and got themselves more beer. House began to feel better . . . _much_ better, as a matter of fact, and judging by the looks of Wilson, the weed had a similar effect on him. He had even opened his collar and taken off his tie. They sniggered at the movie that played on mute, and made up their own lines for what was by all accounts horrible dialog.

At some point House reached down and realized the pizza box was missing in action. "Hey, gimme another slice of pizza!" Quite uncharacteristically, Wilson had been greedy enough to sneak the box over to his side of the table. Now he reached across a nearly full bottle of beer to comply with House's demand. After two beers and half a joint, his movements weren't quite as precise any more, though, and he knocked over the bottle. Beer splattered all over his dress pants and the couch.

"_Damn_!" Wilson jumped up and made a frantic swipe or two at his pants. When he saw the mess on the couch, he was even more annoyed with himself. "Sorry, House, the place is going to reek of stale beer tomorrow. God, even my shoes are ruined now. "

House just shrugged. It wasn't the first time alcohol had been spilled around his couch, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last. "The place is going to reek of more than stale beer, dude. If you want to change into something dry, there are clean pants in the dresser in the bedroom. Help yourself."

While Wilson got changed, House made his way to the kitchen. He rummaged in a drawer and found a clean dish towel to soak up the worst of the mess. The effects of the weed had kicked in, and his leg felt a lot better-so much so that he even cleared away the pizza box and empty bottles. Luckily he had more beer in the fridge; thanks to Wilson's accident, the six-pack he'd brought was now gone.

House had just put two fresh bottles on the table and settled in to wolf down the last piece of pizza, when Wilson called from the door: "None of your jeans fit me. How narrow are your hips, man? I had to find something elastic."

"I just have a fast metabolism," House replied, still chewing on pizza. "Plus, it's all the sports I do." He felt that sharp edge of bitterness under the sarcasm. Most of the time he could ignore it, but today he was already raw and hurting, not just physically. He forced the pain away and concentrated on the tepid pizza.

Wilson, now barefoot and in a pair of House's pajama pants, just shook his head. "Maybe it's me. Maybe I should lose some weight." He walked back over to the couch. The hem of the pants dragged on the floor.

"You don't need to lose weight. You look faboolus," House drew it out in a fake Latin accent a la Billy Crystal. Wilson's sauce-stained work shirt clashed spectacularly with the pajama bottoms. Something resembling amusement bubbled up inside of him. "What is it with you and drink and pants, by the way?" He couldn't help but ride Wilson a bit for that.

"Ha ha, very funny," apparently Wilson didn't think it was funny at all. "Who left the nail polish in your bedroom?" He held up a tiny bottle of something dark red.

House shrugged and felt an odd ache in his chest. "Who do you think?"

"Don't know. One of your hookers?" he caught the look on House's face and it dawned on him. "Stacy? _Seriously?_ You guys were comfortable enough around each other so she'd do her nails while she was here?" Wilson looked surprised.

House dragged his attention away from the horrible movie on TV. "Why does that surprise you? We lived together for five years, if you remember. Also, I don't think she actually painted her nails last night. Must've fallen out of her purse or something." He didn't really want to think about any of that now; he felt reasonably good, and a discussion about Stacy would only destroy his high.

Wilson plopped down next to him on the couch and greedily drank the beer House had put there earlier. House sighed.

"Go on, make yourself useful and roll us another joint instead of worrying about Stacy. She's gone. Departed. Took a hike. _Finis. Das Ende._ Kaputt."

Wilson did as requested and got to work. The second joint turned out every bit as perfect as the first one. Even under the influence, Wilson still rolled like a boss. Halfway through a toke, he leaned back into the couch, blew a tiny bit of smoke towards the ceiling and said, "Didn't think she was that fashion-conscious."

That last bit didn't immediately register with House. "Huh? What do you mean?" One look at Wilson as he fiddled with the tiny bottle of red told him what this was about, though. "It's nail polish, for Pete's sake. I know it's weird, women drawing attention to their hands and all that, but I'm sure I've even seen Julie wear it."

"Nooo, s'not what I meant, House. Of course Stacy wears nail polish. She's a lawyer, she's gotta look good. I meant this particular color – very in at the moment."

House spluttered beer across the table. "What the _hell_, Wilson? You been reading 'Vogue' again? I told you to stay away from the girly magazines." While he definitely felt the calming mix of beer and weed, both physically and mentally, it looked like it had a slightly more heady effect on Wilson. The chance to push away his own pain and gain a chance to humiliate his best friend was too tempting to pass up. This could be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**From **both Brighid45 and myself a big** thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and followed so far. To non-registered users (and I know there are a few lurking), you can comment as a guest - any feedback is welcome. **

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><p>To watch Wilson's carefully constructed professional façade slowly disintegrate under the influence of stress, weed and beer was entertaining in itself. To listen to him talk about fashion and nail polish took things to a new level, though.<p>

"I overheard some of the nurses in the oncology lounge last week," Wilson said. He sounded both amused and a little breathless. " 'parrently dark reds and browns are all the rage for pedicures right now. They're supposed to make your foot look slimmer, more elegant."

"You do know you sound like one of those teenie fashion advice shows, right? Here, gimme!" And House leaned over to grab the tiny bottle. He looked at the label. "_Sole Mate_. Geez, they couldn't come up with a worse pun. Wilson, leave it be." He put it on the couch table. Taking something from Wilson when he was in this state was a guaranteed way to make him want it back.

_Three… Two… One…_

"_House!_ Gimme that back, dammit! I tell you, it works! After all, dark colors are supposed to be slimming. Not that you would need to appear slimmer, you're like a freakin' rake as it is. But if it works with suits and dresses, I'm sure it works with nail polish. Wanna bet?"

Apparently Wilson really was serious about this. House got up from the couch and went over to the piano. "Nah, not interested. This whole color business is bullshit anyway. If you've got fat feet, you've got fat feet. No amount of dark nail polish is gonna fix that." As he feigned disinterest, he played a few notes, and all the while kept an eye on the other man. Wilson plonked his feet onto the table.

"How do women do this? Are they all secretly contortionists?" He bent over his own legs and just about reached his toes. He turned his feet this way and that, and even tried to look at them sideways.

House got up and grabbed the bag with the weed. "Mind if I roll us another one?" he asked innocently.

Wilson was too fascinated with his own feet to put up much opposition. He nodded and waved his hand in an absent gesture.

House hadn't done the honors in a while, but apparently rolling was like riding a bicycle. He would never say it out loud, but he was secretly a little impressed with his own dexterity, even after a few beers and two shared joints. He lit up and sat down on the armrest of the couch, where he towered above Wilson. "Here," he passed the joint over to his friend, who attempted to unscrew the top of the nail polish bottle. It was a pity his fine motor skills had suffered a bit from the weed. Or maybe not. "Wilson, let it go. You can't paint your toenails, you're gonna get the color all over your feet. You'll look like a two year old let loose on a paint-box."

Wilson shook his head. "I just did a ax . . . ax . . . axil. . . axillary lymph node dis . . . dissection today. If I can do surgery, I can do this. You jus' watch me!"

And watch House did.

Joint in one hand and the little brush in the other, Wilson began applying nail polish to his toes. It was now that House regretted the lack of a camera phone, because this was too good not to keep for posterity and potential blackmail. Wilson: in pajama pants and sauce-stained shirt, stoned, tongue stuck out in concentration, joint in one hand as he painted his toenails with the other. It didn't get much better than this. House could barely contain his laughter, afraid Wilson would stop what he was doing. But he needed him to finish the job, so House kept his amusement under control.

"Look! Not bad for the first time, eh?" Wilson proudly pointed his right foot in House's general direction. From what House could see, he had actually done a pretty good job – most of the color had indeed ended up on the toenails.

"You look radiant, Jimmy. Your feet are so . . ." House waved his hand. "Skinny! It's a miracle!" Wilson beamed, and House bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "Want another beer? Think I've got one more for each of us in the fridge." He needed to get out of the room; he could barely hold it together. Wilson started to stand. After all, it was usually his job to keep the supplies coming. House made haste to stop him. "No, no, no, no, no, uh uh. You stay there, you-" He snatched at the first reason that came into his head. "-you can't move now for a while or you'll ruin your pedicure. I'll get you a bottle."

Wilson nodded, absorbed in admiration of his handiwork. "Okay, cool. While you're there, see if you've got anything edible left. Something that's not green around the edges yet, man. I'm hungry and you ate nearly all of the pizza on your own."

So Wilson had the munchies already. House got up and moved to the kitchen as fast he could hobble. When he arrived, he leaned against the counter and let out a rush of air, still biting back an all-out laughing fit. For the first time that day, he felt-well, not normal, but something close. Wilson was so out of it, he had no idea what he had just done.

Once his amusement had settled a bit, House remembered the small digital camera in the top drawer of his desk. If there only was a way he could sneak it out and take a picture without Wilson noticing, his day would be made. But first things first – beer. He also checked his fridge for something edible that wasn't past its sell-by date yet. Stacy had ordered Chinese last night; there should be a carton with some Singapore noodles left.

Suddenly it hit him. He could call in an order and claim Wilson had done it in a fit of post-cannabis hunger, and his friend would be none the wiser. Even better, that meant Wilson would pay for it too. "You know what," he said loudly, though he knew full well Wilson was still busy painting his toes and probably couldn't even hear him. "Contrary to popular opinion, re-heated curry doesn't taste better than fresh . . ."


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

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><p>Oh hell, this was not one of his good mornings. House woke up to an annoyingly loud alarm inside his head . . .<p>

No, not in his head. He tried to open one eye and was not successful. Where . . . ?

At the other end of the bed. He frowned. The other end? Stacy didn't sleep there . . . He drew in a breath as memory flooded in. Stacy wasn't here, never would be again. He shoved the knowledge away and tried to locate the damn alarm.

And now it had stopped. Why? Screw it, it didn't matter. It was gone . . . He drifted back toward sleep, to be stopped once more. There was grunting-also from the other end of the bed.

Bed? He wasn't in his bed. Not his bed and not alone. He was covered with the throw he kept on the back of the couch. Must've fallen asleep here last night. House groaned. If only his head wasn't so heavy, then he could actually sit up to see who made those noises.

Every thought took twice as long and actually hurt. When had _thinking_ ever hurt? It took him a few minutes to realize that the source of the grunts had also turned off the nasty alarm that had woken him. The alarm that wasn't his alarm. Whose then? And what had he done to himself last night that every single fiber in his body seemed to hurt?

Memories of pot and pizza and re-heated curry, beer, and finally a nightcap of bourbon came back to him. Make that several nightcaps. He groaned again and shifted his weight with care, to come to another realization. Something pressed painfully into his lower back.

"What the _hell_?!"

He turned awkwardly and grabbed behind him, and discovered someone's left foot. There was more grunting from the other end of the couch, and the foot disappeared in the folds of the throw. But not before House caught a glimpse of dark red on its toes. He stared after the retreating foot, bewildered. That was a _man's_ foot . . . with toenail polish . . . Slowly images from the previous evening moved through his mind like a slideshow, until he reached the snapshot of Wilson as he struggled with a tiny brush, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

So it hadn't been a wasted night after all.

House rolled over and went back to sleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
